


Blood and Stars in the Water

by elvntari



Series: Canonverse Tolkien [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Impromptu kidnapping, Kinslaying, Third Kinslaying, implied relationship trouble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 22:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Twins bear witness to the destruction of the home they were raised in, left alone and afraid, waiting for someone to save them; the person who comes is not who they expected or wanted.





	Blood and Stars in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit inspired by this piece on Tumblr (https://elvntari.tumblr.com/post/183331940187/gemennair-elrond-and-elros-hiding-from-the) but mostly got out of hand after that. Also 'Maedhros found them playing in a waterfall' sounds fake, Jirt. 
> 
> Haechen - Elros  
> Airchen - Elrond

His hands were cracked and he wanted to cry. The skin, in the darkness and dryness and emptiness of their hiding place, had long lost all of its moisture, and his knuckles were bleeding. It hurt. It hurt so much. He daren’t move his fingers lest the blood begin to pool again. There was enough blood, too much blood, so much blood, blood, blood, blood.

Airchen’s grip tightened around his wrist. It’d cut off the bleeding - no, that would be a good thing. Then there would be no more, and there was plenty of it as it was. It seeped in thick, red pools under the door of the store-room, staining—curling around his bare feet, thick against his toes. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be sick. Whichever came first.

His nails dug into the skin. Why didn’t they agree to let their mother cut them yesterday? He would draw blood. Haechen didn’t want to see another drop for the rest of his life. He heard a bang. The rest of his life might not be that long.

Hushed voices. Not hushed, distant. Distant and angry or—no—frantic. He didn’t recognise the language, but he recognised the tone of voice and he recognised the sound of a gasp and a choked sob. _Then_ they were angry. One hissed to the other, an edge in their words that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He backed further into the tiny room, pressing his back up against the cool, stone walls. The stone was clean and dry. No blood there. Good. No blood was good. His stomach lurched—he was going to be sick. He couldn’t afford to be sick.

He searched for his brother in the dark. Airchen was still kneeling, clothes stained red; silent and frozen, save for the wet glisten of tears on his cheeks. They mixed with blood. He squeezed his eyes shut. _Enough_. There was blood on his hands, too, he noticed, with a strange, calm observance. Blood was very drying. That was why his hands felt so rough.

The voices didn’t stop: they were quieter now, arguing under their breath. He jumped at the clattering of metal against a stone floor. Words spoken at normal volume, followed by the sound of a door being slammed.

The silence was charged.

One of them spoke again in softer tones, perhaps even with softer words. The other hesitated, then replied with caution.

 _Just the wind,_ he imagined they were saying, then, _sorry for getting angry._

He wanted desperately to reach out to his brother—to say something—anything—to reassure him, but they had no idea who these people were and what they could do. Perhaps they could hear even their thoughts.

He reached for his brother’s hand but met the fabric of his tunic instead. It was damp. Haechen clapped a hand to his mouth as he felt himself gag.

The background noise of foreign conversation ceased. He froze. He hadn’t made any noise—he _knew_ he hadn’t made any noise. He’d tried so hard not to make a sound. He could hear the tell-tale clean scrape of a blade unsheathed. And footsteps. He could hear footsteps.

Momentary silence. Then another exchange. One of the voices—the one that was now nearer to them—snapped, then continued walking. Their shadow closed out the crack of light that shone from beneath the door. They could see their boots. They were covered in blood.

Then there was too much light, spilling in through the newly opened door, a temporary blinding halo around the figure’s body. He closed his eyes and pulled his brother close—waited for the slice of metal through air.

It didn’t come.

He opened his eyes. The man in front of them murmured a word that he couldn’t understand, staring at them. He was tall—but most adults were—and had thick, dark hair pulled back into a complicated series of braids that spilt down over and around his shoulders. If Haechen thought he was drenched in blood, then this man bathed in it. Crimson dripped slick from his hands and coloured his clothes, staining the metal of his armour; there was an open wound on his cheekbone that barely missed his eye, spilling messy trails down to his jaw.

He sheathed his knife and turned.

They recognised the other man. He was the person their mother told them cautionary tales about—tall— _really_ tall, with cropped red hair, pulled back and streaked with white, and a network of scars and burns that seemed to cover every inch of flesh available to tarnish. Airchen tensed next to him. He kept his distance.

“We won’t hurt you.” His eyes flitted back to the man in front of them as he knelt down to meet their eyes, catching on the star-pendant that hung around his neck. “I promise. I don’t break my promises.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll starve alone if you stay here,” he said, “let me take you somewhere safe.”

Maedhros called out something in that same foreign tongue.

“Ignore him,” said the man in front of them. He reached for the knife on his belt, throwing it away behind him and holding up his hands. “Look, I’m unarmed—” his lips twitched— “so is he.”

The joke and the horror both registered at once, and Haechen pulled himself and his brother as far back into the cupboard as he could get. These people were murderers. They were monsters.

“Maedhros,” the man called out, “drop your weapons; they’re just kids—actually, hand me your knife—drop the rest.”

“We don’t have your rock,” he blurted. The man stared at him, then his expression softened.

“I know,” he said, “that cursed stone is gone now.” He paused for a moment, then offered them a hand. “My name is Maglor—please—I just want to help you. No one else is coming, I’m sorry.”

Maedhros slipped a knife into his other hand—ornamental—the sheath glinting with gold and rubies. Maglor held it out to them hilt-first.

“Take it.”

Haechen shook his head.

“Please; if you don’t come with us, you will need something to defend yourself with.”

“You’ve killed with it.”

“Not me personally,” he said, frowning, “in fact, I don’t think it’s ever been used.” He slipped it out of its sheath and balanced it in his hand, examining it. His eyes trailed over the gentle curve of the blade as it glinted in the midday sun.

Another door slammed. He looked up, then blurted something in that language that he couldn’t understand. Maedhros picked up his sword again and stared down through the open doors. Maglor added another few words, then forced the knife into his hand. “It’ll keep you safe,” he whispered, then retrieved his discarded sword from the centre of the room, settling into a fighting stance next to his brother.

He saw the room. There was a body a few feet away in front of them, and one at the centre, lying on its back with a sword protruding from its abdomen, blood staining its lips. _More blood._ They looked like Maedhros, if younger and with curlier hair—sans the scars, of course. The brothers stood in front of it. Maglor met his eyes, then jerked his head toward the door on the other side of the hall.

He was telling them to run.

He didn’t run. Maglor glared at the two of them; his expression reminded him of the times their mother had asked them kindly not to pour out their food onto the floor, only to watch them proceed to do so anyway. He elbowed Maedhros and snapped a command at him. Maedhros looked like he was going to resist, but sheathed his sword and made his way over to them, grabbing him by the wrist.

“Hey!”

“You’ll die if you stay here. Worse monsters than us are coming,” he growled. He wouldn’t be able to break free of his grip either way—Maedhros had the advantage of several centuries of age and strength training. Another door slammed in the distance as Maglor grabbed his brother.

He heard the echo of heavy footsteps somewhere else in the building. Haechen weighed up his options. The Fëanorians won.

 

\---

 

They sat on a rock at the base of a waterfall, watching as the two Fëanorians cast off their armour, throwing it into the pool, tainting the water with blood. Maglor had draped the two of them in his cloak, heavy and black, lined with soft, red satin. It wasn’t very warm, but, by the looks of things, it was all that they had.

When they’d gotten to the cove, they’d argued for a good five minutes in that other language, before Maglor had turned to them, sighed, and then referred them to his older brother by means of explanation. They were hostages, now, they would be safe. They were needed healthy and in one piece. He’d just stared at him—he wanted to talk as little as possible. No, he _needed_ to talk as little as possible, what he _wanted_ was to scream and beg and plead and ask every single question that flitted through his mind.

Now Maglor sat, bare feet in the water, watching the blood spread through it in clouds beneath the surface. He murmured something, hands pressed against his lips. A prayer, maybe. Of all men to pray…

He straightened up. “Hostage,” he called out, voice clear and steady. “Come here.”

Airchen started, but Haechen squeezed his hand.

_I’ll go._

He nodded.

Haechen slipped off the rock and cautiously made his way toward the Fëanorian. He looked tired, but he offered him a weak smile, then offered him his palm. “Let’s see your hands.”

Hachen hesitated, but he couldn’t see any reason for the gesture to be a trap. He felt the weight of the knife in its sheath, slipped into his pocket. It was comforting. He had to look brave for his brother; he put his hand into Maglor’s palm, skin warm and surprisingly soft to the touch, save for one or two calluses on his fingertips. Maglor reached out and took some of the water from the pool in a cupped palm, then poured it over, washing the dirt and blood from his skin, revealing the rough surface beneath. He frowned, then reached back over to his pack and pulled an ointment from one of the pockets.

“Here,” he said, smoothing it over his skin. It smelt like heaven and it instantly alleviated the dry tightness from Haechen’s hands. He forced himself to bite his tongue. He wasn’t going to thank the Fëanorian. He refused to. Instead, he stared at him in his best imitation of intimidation. “What’s your name?”

Haechen froze. Somehow, the question was one he hadn’t been expecting. He clenched his teeth and looked away, then jumped as he felt Maglor’s wet fingers wiping the grime from his cheeks. Applying ointment to little cuts he hadn’t even registered that he’d received.

Maedhros tapped him on the shoulder as he worked, saying something in that other language. Maglor followed his gaze to the setting sun over on the horizon, then responded, tone grave.

Haechen wanted to ask what was wrong, why they were so concerned, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He had decided. It felt like the only act of rebellion that he could afford. Just because they had agreed to sit peacefully and be prisoners didn’t mean they had agreed to pretend like they were friendly.

“We need to find shelter,” Maglor said, by way of explanation, then stood, holding out a hand for him to take. “Come.”

Haechen shook his head. Maedhros sighed. “You’ll die,” he said, “but your kind don’t seem to care too much about that, do they?”

Maglor shot him a seething glare. “I’ll stay and watch them. You can search by yourself.”

 _Should I tell them about the cave?_ His brother’s thoughts appeared clear in his head.

 _I don’t_ —

_He said we’ll die._

_Airchen_ —

_I’m going to tell them about the cave; it’s not like we’ll ever be able to go back to it again otherwise._

Airchen stood up on the rock. “There’s a cave behind the waterfall. We used to play there when mum was busy.”

Maglor’s shoulders softened. “Then we can take shelter there. It’s not ideal, but it’ll be better than nothing.”

“We won’t be able to light a fire,” Maedhros said, “we’ll freeze.”

“Didn’t their ancestors already suffer through the worst cold known to the world?”

Maedhros paused a moment before responding. “They did, but _we_ light fires, Kano.”

“How about torches? Less smoke.”

He considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll go and find some wood.” He went on his way into the surrounding forest. Maglor turned to Airchen.

“Thank you, little one.” He sat back down next to Haechen and shut his eyes, basking in the evening sun. He looked like he was made for the warm glow of that time of day, where everything looked like it was made of honey and bronze. Still, Maedhros had been right and the evening chill was starting to set in. Haechen shivered. Maglor turned to look at him, then sighed, “why don’t you ask your brother to bring that cloak over here?”

Airchen started, then made his way over, pulling the cloak behind him. Maglor took one corner of fabric in his hands and stared at it, then reached out and pulled it around the two of them, adjusting the clasp so that it hung in place over their shoulders. He paused to wipe a smear of blood of Airchen’s cheek with the cuff of his sleeve.

The three of them sat in silence in front of the pool, watching the reflection of armour and weapons glinting at the bottom of it, and the first stars of the evening reflecting in the surface. Occasionally a fleck of water from the bottom of the fall would hit him, sending a shiver of cold through his body.

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said quietly, softly. “We didn’t know there would be children—I know that doesn’t make it better. No child should have to witness that.”

The two of them let him talk, pulling the cloak tighter around them, sharing in each other’s warmth. It occurred to him that Airchen hadn’t cried since they fled. He realised that he hadn’t cried at all. He didn’t want to cry; he wanted to go to bed, not caring where he woke up in the morning.

The sun sank below the horizon, giving way to watery-blue and the light of thousands of stars above them. The wind began to pick up. Maglor shivered. “How about you go inside? I’ll keep watch; you don’t want to get exposure.”

Airchen squeezed his hand and stood up, tugging them both toward the cave entrance. As they walked, Haechen risked a glance back and met Maglor’s eyes through the foam of the waterfall. He looked strange. Sad.

 

\---

 

Haechen sat, shivering on the ledge behind the fall, hugging his arms and letting the spray hit his open eyes. Maybe that would make him cry. He couldn’t seem to cry. The fabric of his clothes had dried long ago and crackled whenever he shifted, dried blood cracking. It scraped against his skin.

He hadn’t been able to sleep like that—not even with the promise that his brother would be warm if he stayed curled up with him in their little corner of the cave. If he could just wash the blood out of his clothes and off his skin, then everything would be alright, and when he woke up, it would be as if nothing had happened. The blood was a curse. Still, the night air was cold, and the water was colder; he would freeze to death if he dared remove a single layer. So, he sat, alone and cold in the starlight.

The imperceptible shift in the air alerted him to the presence of an onlooker. He hoped it was Airchen. He knew it wasn’t.

“If you want to run,” Maglor said, “then run. Just take your brother with you; it wouldn’t do for you to be split up.”

“You’d know that, wouldn’t you?” Haechen mumbled.

Maglor laughed. The sound was sharp and quick; Haechen was almost afraid that it would cut him. “I would. We’re taking you to the nearest human settlement and we’re leaving you there, understood?”

“Why?”

“Look, it may not seem like it, but killing and capturing _everyone_ we meet isn’t a clause in the oath.”

Haechen tensed; he hadn’t expected Maglor to bring up the Oath of Fëanor, but it made sense, marginally. He hadn’t heard many good things about the Fëanorians from his mother, but he’d met servants who considered them fallen heroes. He’d always wondered why. “You could’ve just left us.”

“I know right from wrong,” Maglor whispered, almost too quiet for him to hear, as if the statement was more for himself than anyone else. “Go and get some sleep, or your brother, I won’t make your choice for you.” Maglor moved to walk away, then paused a second, muttering something under his breath.

Haechen considered it for a second; it had sounded something like _Elerossë,_ whatever that meant.

 

\---

 

Somewhere along the journey, Maglor started referring to them as _Elerondo_ and _Elerossë,_ and they weren't going to tell him their real names, so they might as well go along with it. Really, what struck Haechen the most was the fact that he could seemingly tell them apart. He hadn’t once slipped up; not yet, no matter how hard they tried to confuse him.

They had to take the long route around and they didn’t have horses or carriages, so they spent a good few days on the road with the Fëanorians, just waiting for them to snap and the facade of good-hearted protection to come crumbling down. It never did.

On the third day, Maglor sat down across from them on the other side of the campfire they’d built up for themselves. “We should be able to get there by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, skinning a freshly-caught rabbit with his sword.

Haechen found his gaze wandering to Maedhros as he stood guard at the edge of their little circle, the only boundary a group of logs arranged around the perimeter. He expected him to shrug dismissively, saying something like _“good riddance,”_ or _“we’ll be glad to see the last of you.”_ Instead, he simply watched them, gaze cool and calm as always. Haechen was beginning to wonder if he was really as scary as the stories claimed.

“Elerossë, you look pale, are you alright?”

“Tired,” he said. He hadn’t been sleeping well, but he was pretty sure that Maglor knew that; some part of him hoped that if he got tired enough the tears would come, but they never did.

He wondered if the real monster in that circle was him. His mother was gone. Everyone he ever knew and loved were gone—save Airchen—and he couldn’t even cry. He couldn’t even bring himself to care. He didn’t feel like a real person sitting there, next to his brother, wrapped in Maglor’s blood-stained cloak to keep out the cold. Maglor cut the meat into pieces, hands a scary kind of steady.

“Maybe it’d be a good idea to go to sleep a little earlier this evening,” he said as he speared one of the pieces on his blade, then laid it down on the flat of his breastplate—they’d repurposed their armour into a makeshift barbecue, sacrificing that line of defence to keep him and his brother fed. Haechen didn’t want to trust them, he _desperately_ wanted not to trust them, but they made a good case for themselves. He shook his head.

“You’ll be safe,” Maedhros promised. His input made Haechen jump. The barest smile ghosted his scarred lips. “Don’t worry.”

 _I don’t break my promises._ Maglor’s words from their meeting in Sirion echoed in his memory—Haechen didn’t think he had been lying, but he also wasn’t entirely convinced that being men of their word was a good thing. The fire crackled in front of them as Maglor laid more cuts of meat out—strangely, he appeared to flinch when it rose up, as if he was afraid that it was alive and that it wanted to consume him. Of all the people in the world to be afraid of fire, Haechen wouldn’t have guessed one of them to be him.

“We do need to discuss your release, though,” he said, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, thrust point-down into the earth below. “I’m sure there will be people willing to look after you—at least until others come looking—but, just in case, we’ll leave you with our weapons—”

“How will _you_ defend yourselves?” He asked, before he realised what he was saying.

Maglor smiled gently. “We have plenty of experience in hand-to-hand combat,” he said, “though I appreciate the concern.”

“They’ll need money, too,” Maedhros said.

“That won’t be a problem—as long as there’s a shop where I can sell all my jewels,” Maglor grinned, hands fiddling with one of the several rings he wore. Haechen had taken stock of each of them—he wasn’t sure why, but he felt like it was something that he ought to do. There was his black signet ring, a dark grey one set with rubies for decoration and three wedding bands, which he thought was strange—one silver, one gold, and one a complex interwoven circle of silver vines, set with glittering diamonds and emeralds, polished into the shape of leaves. He also wore plenty of adornments on his ears and around his neck, but none were as pretty.

Maedhros raised his eyebrows, continuing, “clean clothes, too, unless if you think being covered in blood will help their case.”

Maglor considered for a second. “I suppose you're right, but we don't want to bring too much attention to ourselves; we're covered in the stuff, too, remember.”

Haechen was all too aware.

“What if you say you ran into orcs?” Airchen piped up. They all stared at him.

_Why are you helping them?_

_They're letting us go either way, so it won't make any difference._

“The kid makes a good suggestion,” Maedhros said.

“And it's not a lie,” Airchen added. “Not entirely.”

 _Which reminds me,_ Haechen thought, _what if they're lying about letting us go?_

_They aren't. I can tell._

_How?_

_Someday, you'll see._

Haechen rest his elbows on his knees and stared into the flames, watching as they lapped the edges of Maglor's breastplate. He had reassured them that it was made of Titanium; it would take a hell of a lot to make it melt. Haechen didn't ask why. The meat began to emit a smell that, despite his better judgement, made his mouth water. Maglor used his sword to flip the pieces over.

The Fëanorians’ hastily collected supplies had run out fast, and they'd been subsisting off of whatever they could find or catch for two days. It wasn't too much of a problem, since they both appeared perfectly competent at hunting and gathering, but Haechen was beginning to miss the taste of complex foods. Bread, for instance. Or milk. He would do anything for a glass of milk.

It didn't take long for the meat to be done. Maglor served it to them speared on daggers, a gesture which made Haechen shudder. These were weapons used for killing people. He imagined a world in which the meat they were served was that of one of the bodies lying in the hall.

Still, it was food, and they were hungry.

As they ate, Maedhros and Maglor spoke in hushed tones, again in that language that only they appeared to share. After three days, however, Haechen found himself able to pick our some of the words. For a start, he knew that they referred to him and his brother as 'the boys'—a term much more familiar than he expected—and they spent most of their time talking about another brother. The body in the centre of the hall—the one that looked like Maedhros—could that be him?

The agreement that they were hostages, while technically still standing, didn't feel like it really fit anymore. Less so when, as night stained the sky above their heads, Maglor bid them both goodnight, retrieving the still-warm breastplate from the ashes and setting it down next to them as a means of keeping them warm through the night.

He didn't want to trust the Fëanorian. He wasn't going to trust the Fëanorian. He had no reason to trust the Fëanorian.

But.

As the darkness deepened, and his brother's breathing sank into the steady slowness of sleep, he found his eyes drifting towards him, cross-legged on one of the logs, staring out into the distance. Haechen shifted out of his brother's grip, climbing carefully over the plate of armour and pulling himself up onto the log next to Maglor.

“I can't sleep.” 

Maglor jumped. Haechen wasn't sure if it was pretend or not—to make him seem less threatening. If it was, he needn't have bothered, Haechen couldn't seem to find it in himself to be threatened, whatever implication that held. “Why not?” He spoke gently into the night.

“I keep thinking about home.”

Maglor tensed. “I'm sorry,” he said, almost as a reflex, and then, “nightmares?”

Haechen shook his head, but refused to elaborate. He wasn't going to let the Fëanorian bear witness to his inner turmoil. It wouldn't feel right. “How can you tell us apart?” He asked. After some consideration, he decided that asking questions wouldn't disadvantage him; the only people who'd have anything to lose would be their 'captors,’ if it even made sense to call them that.

“I had twin brothers,” Maglor said, the steadiness in his voice never faltered. “You learn to tell.”

“What does ‘Elerossë’ mean?” He prompted, ignoring Maglor's answer for all of its concerning use of tense.

“‘Elros,’ it would be—” he cocked his head a little to the left as he regarded Haechen— “I believe the translation is correct,” he added with the distinct air of someone who _knew_ their translation was flawless, and was just trying to be polite.

Haechen nodded. _Elros._ He liked the way it sounded.

“I hope you don't mind,” Maglor added, “but it felt more respectful than calling you 'hostage number one.’”

He didn't want to give Maglor the satisfaction of knowing that he appreciated it. “What about my brother?”

He shut his eyes, making the translation in his head. “Elrond,” he said, slowly.

“Elrond,” Haechen repeated back to him. “You couldn't have picked more obvious names.”

Maglor cracked a smile. “I get it from my parents,” he said, “if you ask anyone other than my dad, you'll find that my name translates to 'loud.’”

“No it doesn't,” Haechen, said. He was well enough aware of the differences between Quenya and Sindarin by that point to know that words translated were never too far off. Maglor stared at him; he clearly hadn’t been expecting any kind of dispute. “I know what your name means.”

Maglor smiled. “Oh, not this one,” he said, “we have two names; my father name was _Kanafinwë.”_ His voice slipped into accent as he spoke—the transition more fluid than it should’ve been. The ghost of a memory—his mother telling him how _her_ great-grandfather had banned that language from ever being spoken in his realm—how people had taught it to themselves anyway. The culprit could’ve been anyone, but soon letters were being written, and they were being written in Tengwar, and loan words slipped into their speech, filling the gaps like molten metal slipping into a mold. Haechen could see why. When Maglor spoke Quenya, he spoke it with a beauty and clarity that made him believe in a song that could create a world. If words could be said like that, then words could do anything.

“Do I have a father name?” He asked, quietly.

“Do you have a father?”

Haechen nodded. “I don’t remember him, though.”

“Eärendil, wasn’t it?” Maglor sighed. “He was—ah—let me think—” he closed his eyes, straining— “first cousin twice removed—yes, Idril’s son.”

That made them related. Of course, he’d known logically that the House of Finwë was large, spanning almost fifty people, and Maglor’s father name even included the signature, but he’d never properly considered it. Maglor appeared to come to the realisation as he did.

“That makes you my first cousin three times removed.”

“I don’t like that.”

Maglor chuckled, “I don’t suppose you would.” The silence hung between them, oddly peaceful. In the cool of the night, a horrible impulse to shuffle closer and leech off of Maglor’s body heat bothered him, but he wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t get close to the Fëanorian. He was a murderer, a kinslayer, a kidnapper—he wasn’t the kind of person you got close to.

 _He’s also family,_ came a voice in his head. At first he thought it was Airchen, all too trusting, but he was asleep. Haechen didn’t like this uneasy trust they were developing.

“Why did you do it?” He asked, quietly—the answer wasn’t a mystery to him, but he needed to hear it again.

Maglor’s shoulders fell with his expression. “I don’t break my promises,” was his only answer, a breath into the heavy night air. “I want to, but I can’t; my brothers—my brother needs me at his side.” Haechen regretted asking; he seemed on the verge of tears. _Even_ he _can cry? Why can’t I?_ The silence persisted, weighing down on their conversation like like a led blanket.

“I can’t sleep,” Haechen whispered, at last.

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?”

He got the sense that the offer was more of a request. _Please let me sing. Please trust me enough to do that._ He had been taught to fear the mighty singer’s voice; if you heard it, you were already dead, but he was curious. It was that same curiosity that had led him to dig up all of the records of the house of Hador, even if he couldn’t quite read them yet, and the curiosity that had demanded his mother tell them the same old story about her grandparents over and over, hoping to find some new detail in the words. Haechen nodded, then slipped off the rock, sliding back into his half of the cloak.

Maglor hopped down from his perch with the grace of a black cat then lowered himself down next to him, cross-legged. He laid a hand on the side of Haechen’s head—he froze at the touch, then relaxed as Maglor began to stroke his hair.

Then the song started.

Haechen’s mother had sung them lullabies sometimes, when she was sober enough to put them to bed herself—they’d been beautiful things; songs that spanned tales of ages, of love and of loss and of the beauty that resided in every nook and cranny of their hapless world. She sang to them about their father. Sometimes the songs were kind. Sometimes they were bitter. They were nothing like the lullaby that Maglor sang.

With his voice, he painted a picture of a perfect world of eternal daylight and days spent in cheer and merriment, of fields of tall grasses and wildflowers that spanned for miles around and of a palace atop a hill, with a hearth that smoked and children that played in the gardens. He sang of ports with clear blue oceans, waves that lapped lazily at the sand and tickled the in-betweens of your toes; boats with wings and a city of white marble, filled with people who smiled and waved when you walked by. He sang of the warm embrace of a loving mother, and the promise of sweet food if you’d just behave yourself for one afternoon, and the way it all seemed to free and so easy. Maglor sang of a home long lost, still beautiful.

And Haechen cried.

 

\---

 

The scent of spice and hot food was one of the things that Haechen was fairly sure you couldn’t know how much you missed until it surrounded you. The town smelled like _people_. It smelled like people and life and a nice, hot meal; a warm bed to lay their heads down on. The food carts lined the streets, vendors calling out to them from behind their stands, smiling as they peered through the paper lanterns and colourful streamers that adorned them.

Maglor murmured something in Quenya; Haechen could just about make out the words ‘fire hazard.’ He rolled his eyes.

They’d managed to get a hold of some clean clothes, so now he and his brother were dressed up like little humans in bright oranges and reds that almost hurt to look at. The clothing was soft and comfortable, well-made—apparently Maglor’s earrings had been worth a lot, since they had some spare change, too. Still, after a brief scout of the area, he lowered himself to eye-level next to the fountain in the town-square.

“There’s a children’s home just over there—” He nodded to a point just behind them— “you should be safe, but, just in case, take this.” He pressed half of the spare change into Airchen’s hand, closing his fingers around the coins. He watched as he pocketed it. For a moment, he looked over them, as if he was trying to find something—some sort of reassurance—in their expressions. He bit his lip. “In case that’s not enough,” he said, “I want you to take these.” He pulled the three wedding rings off of his finger, and laid them in Haechen’s palm; he stared back at him.

“Those are wedding rings,” Airchen said, “you can’t give them to us.”

Maglor pinched the bridge of his nose. “The idea,” he said, “is that that they're valuable enough that you can use them to pay for your protection.”

Airchen handed them back to him. “Then I can pay for protection from you, right?”

Maglor sighed. “Alright, how about this; I have three and there are three of us, so I give one to you—” he placed the gold ring into Haechen's hand— “one to you,” he put the decorative one into Airchen's hand— “and I keep this one.” He slipped the plain silver one back onto his finger.

“Why do you have three?” Haechen stared up at him as his expression shifted.

“I don't want to talk about that.”

“We won't leave until you tell us,” Airchen said, catching on. “Didn't we just pay you for protection?”

He stared at them, then sighed. A grin spread across Airchen's face.

“Just know that I'm not happy about this.” Maglor stood and, without being told to, they followed him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna be writing an Elwing thing soon bc I love her.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed the fic!
> 
> A big thank you to Fairy, Shine, Opal and Nat for all offering me their expert assistance in making this Not Awful and reassuring my anxieties at every step of the way. This took me five business days to write, so I don't think I did too bad!


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